


A Study In Simplicity

by Enigma3000



Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, Ew, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, [yearns in desi], author overused the word colour to the point she isn't sure it's a real word anymore, disgustingly in love, i cannot overstate how fluff this is, i want what they have right now immediately, op is crying, op is hurting, op is yearning, self care is spending 3 hours on pure diabetes, so in love bye, so much. so much oh my god what came over me, this is gross, went hard with the soft ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigma3000/pseuds/Enigma3000
Summary: Aman Tripathi didn't have a favourite colour.He just didn't.But it'sso much funto watch Kartik try and guess it anyway.----[inspired by this tumblr post by @whaorei: "she guessed my favorite color first try.. but between me and u……. i didnt even have a favorite color until she yelled out yellow!! she was hella excited n smiling like a little kid. so i told her she was right and i havent seen yellow the same since, its in everything. i could probably live in it now."]
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Comments: 28
Kudos: 52





	A Study In Simplicity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaandni :')](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=chaandni+%3A%27%29).



> my exam went well today so I decided to reward myself with death. Y'all can have some too <3

There was a bird outside.

Kartik could hear it, faintly. Twittering about on a cool winter branch, singing its gentle song. About what, exactly, Kartik didn't know. Probably nothing, considering it was a bird. But Kartik often enjoyed imagining that there was a hidden meaning to things, an unseen, unknown side to something that appeared to be the very picture of simplicity. Waiting to be found. 

It made life infinitely more interesting.

He closed his eyes and smiled, losing himself in the bird’s tunes. A gentle call, perhaps to a lover? Or a lonely lament. Maybe a ballad known to nobody but itself.

He entertained the beautiful absurdity of the thought, his mind lingering for but a moment before drifting to the pleasant brush of evening breeze against his afternoon shadow. All of this made significantly more blissful by the slow drag of Aman’s fingers through his hair.

It was tiny moments like these, Kartik decided, that made this otherwise infuriating world worth living in.

Aman Tripathi, nose buried in an age-yellowed book as it so often was, didn’t seem to share Kartik’s sentiment. He found himself lost in another world entirely.

Which is why he nearly missed Kartik’s voice, softly calling out to him from his lap.

“Aman?”

The man in question didn’t look away from his book, much to Kartik’s amusement. Aman simply readjusted his glasses, carefully flipped a page and continued reading. His attention was occupied, completely under control of forces Kartik couldn’t do away with if he could be bothered to try. 

So he simply sighed, and tried again.

“Aman, sun na-”

His words were cut off by a yawn, insistent and sleepy in a way that betrayed his late nights spent slaving over his textbooks. His ambitions of becoming a social worker were wearing on him, but it was worth it.

Also, Aman always, always brought him a mug of coffee with a hint of chocolate (perhaps he had a  _ bit  _ of a sweet tooth. Perhaps.) every night he stayed up, so that was nice.

Kartik reached up, his movements lazy and unrushed in a way that could only be brought about by sheer contentment. His hand patted his boyfriend’s cheek twice, and while Aman holding it in place against his face was nice, it wasn’t the reaction Kartik had been hoping for.

The infernal book still held his attention.

Kartik knocked the glasses off his face.

Aman scowled.

“Aman.”

He watched the love of his life roll his eyes, sigh deeply like he’d just been handed all the world’s burdens to bear, and glare down at him. Aman turned his pointed, somewhat annoyed gaze at the man smiling up at him, his face the very picture of innocence.

Jerk.

“...Hm?” came his non committal response.

Aman really had been enjoying his book.

_ Aristotle and Dante _ , Goggle’s recommendation (threat, more like, she had mentioned something about shaving his head if he happened to forget). He’d been sceptical at first, what with it being teen fiction and all. In his defense, Aman was the kind of odd little man who had read Shakespeare  _ for fun _ in high school. 

But he was halfway through, now, and not even Kartik could distract him from his personal mission of devouring page after page until there were none left. 

Kartik disagreed.

He turned himself over to his side noiselessly in Aman’s lap, pushed himself up by his elbows and finally sat up.

Aman missed the pleasant weight on his lap almost immediately.

He watched Kartik stretch like an adorable, very tall cat, watched him pair the already lovable spectacle with a small, delicate yawn, and Aman could’ve sworn he felt his heart skip a beat. 

Perhaps several.

He couldn’t stifle the yawn that overtook him while watching Kartik.

Kartik abruptly dropped his hands to his sides,heavy in his slight exhaustion. He rubbed his eyes slowly, blinked away some of the sleep clouding his vision and fixed his boyfriend with a tiny smile

Soft, and gentle, and oh-so-pretty.

_ (when was Kartik not pretty, really?). _

Aman turned his gaze back to the book yet again, earning a small pout from the man seated next to him. It was ridiculous, he knew, to be legitimately jealous of a bunch of papers held together by glue, but Kartik was the kind of person who used the line between “normal” and “ridiculous” as a jump rope.

The damn book had the attention that was rightfully Kartik’s.

"I bet I can guess your favourite colour"

Aman looked up.

And blinked.

“What-”

“You’ve never told me,” Kartik shrugged minutely, “But I can guess.”

Aman frowned. 

There were a million things he wanted to ask, starting with why Kartik had suddenly been gripped by the need to ask Aman a first date question after they’d been dating six months, to how he was so sure, and why he was so sure he knew the answer to this when he didn’t know Aman’s middle name until last week.

(in his defence, Aman had never told him, because it was Dheenanath, and Aman had heard the same terrible “is there a D in you” joke only 2000 times too many. 

Kartik was 500 of those), 

And, also,  _ why in God’s name did he want to ask a first date question after six months of dating. _

But Aman simply settled for a bewildered “How?”

Kartik smirked.

“I just know you that well.”

The confidence radiating off him was enough to power twelve race horses, if Aman had to guess.

Kartik raised his eyebrows, daring Aman to challenge him.

Aman wanted to laugh. 

While there was no denying Kartik knew him better than he did himself sometimes, that Kartik had seen more of him than he had ever let anyone see- ever thought he would let anyone see- guessing Aman’s favourite colour was pure chance. A chance that teetered rather close to zero, here.

Mostly because he didn’t have one.

And he was going to tell Kartik as much  _ (he really was) _ , when the latter spoke up again, stopping Aman’s very noble action before it began.

“100 says I get it right.”

Now  _ this  _ got Aman’s attention.

Was it unfair to hide the vital information from Kartik that his chances were doomed from the start and every attempt of his would inevitably end in failure?

_ Maybe. _

Was it fun to scam your boyfriend out of money?

_ God, yes. _

Was Aman’s conscience strong enough to keep him from indulging this morally questionable temptation?

_ No, not even close. _

Aman smirked.

“...Go on.”

“Wait,” Kartik held up a finger, “I’m thinking.”

“You can do that?”

Kartik ignored him.

Aman almost felt bad, for a second there, screwing this endearing lunatic out of his hard earned money. 

_ Almost. _

Who was he to deny Kartik his rare moments of thought?

Kartik bit his lip, the way he did when he was putting all his energy into focusing on something. When there was but one thought occupying his mind, but one thing that held his attention, his every brainwave, his heart.

All of that, for nothing.

Because Aman Tripathi was not one to waste time or mental effort picking a favourite colour. There was a time, several years ago, when he did have one. Several, in fact. They seemed to change every week- red, to blue, to pink (until his father had stared at him weird when he asked for pink shoes) back to red- until one day, at the ripe old age of 11, he had decided that the emotional labour of maintaining a favourite colour is simply not worth having one.

And it had stayed that way.

For about... 15 years, now.

Aman watched, barely hiding a chuckle, as Kartik frowned at the coffee table like he were decoding the meaning of life itself

He was… actually putting thought into this.

All to prove how well he knew Aman. Something he didn’t need to do, not at all, and yet here he was. Tapping his fingers away on the back of their blue couch like he intended to erode the dye away, looking every which way, as though the dining table, or the carpet, or their television held his desired answer.

The achingly tender gaze directed at him went tragically unseen. Aman felt a wave of affection crash through him, as it often does when one is desperately, irrevocably in love. No, when one is reminded of the fact, more like. As if he ever forgot for a damn second.

Kartik opened his mouth, intent upon saying something, then closed it again.

Aman raised an eyebrow.

"Your favourite colour is… no, wait-"

They were going to be here a while.

He felt bad for letting Kartik struggle this way, but the man seemed adAmant to prove that he was the perfect boyfriend (not that he needed to, of course not, heavens no-), and once Kartik Singh set his mind to something, not even God herself could stop him from achieving what he intended to.

He watched Kartik struggle a bit more, and momentarily considered lying to put him out of his misery.

Gun to his head, Aman would have probably said black. Call him boring, dull, whatever. There was no denying it looked and felt nice, the absence of all colour. Black was simple. Black was effortlessly elegant. 

Plus, he looked good in black.

(And his clothing choices had reflected his belief. Kartik, however, insisted he looked good in everything. The variety in Aman's wardrobe had only come into the picture after they had started dating)

But, as it so often does with humankind, pride came in the way. Aman was not going to lose this bet. No sir. It was rigged in his favour, anyway, how many times does life let you win this easily? 

Kartik, who was blissfully unaware of the fact, wracked his brain for an answer nonetheless. Aman could almost hear the gears turning in that beautiful head of his. 

“...Just pick a colour-”

“Shut up.”

Aman blinked, unamused, and went back to his book. Kartik could take his time, Aman had no plans to move anytime soon. He brought his legs up under himself and settled comfortably on their couch, elbow resting peacefully on the armrest, mind slowly drifting back into the world he’d spent the better part of today in. He let the words flood his head and let reality melt away. 

Aman felt himself floating back into the world Kartik had so rudely yanked him out of.

And then did it again.

He nearly dropped the book when Kartik stood up without warning.

“What the-”

“RED.”

Aman frowned.

“What-”

“RED!”

He grinned at Aman, so wide and so thrilled that Aman nearly forgot to be annoyed.

And yet found it in him to look past the grin that was pure sunshine and glare at Kartik, unimpressed. He’d nearly dropped the book because of this man’s sudden outburst, and if there was one thing that Aman would forever be terrified of no matter how old they got, it would be Goggle’s fierce, mother lion like protectiveness over her books.

(Aman had torn a page by accident, once, as a child. She’d taken scissors to his science homework in retaliation.)

“IT’S RED! IT HAS TO BE!” Kartik yelled, reminding Aman of a child who’d just been bought a balloon.

“IT’S RED, I’M SURE IT IS.”

...It wasn’t.

“ HAND OVER THE MONEY, TRIPATHI. I’M RIGHT AND I KNOW IT.”

He wasn’t.

Aman scoffed.

For one thing, the idea of him actually having a favourite colour was stupid. He’d made a commitment not to have one all those years ago, and he didn’t intend on letting go of it now.

And second, if he actually had a favourite colour, it would me more unique than something as... simple as  _ red. _

He was offended.

Aman watched Kartik look at him expectantly, those bushy eyebrows raised to the heavens in anticipation of Aman’s response.

“...no,” Aman shook his head.

“No, it’s not-”

Aman regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Because the very moment he uttered them, it was like light in their room had gone out. The bubbling energy that hung heavy around him simmered down all of a sudden, the excitement evaporated into thin air, and the man beaming at him like he’d just set foot on the moon let his hands fall from where they were wrapped proudly in front of his chest. Aman watched Kartik’s shoulders sag, watched his face fall 10 feet, utterly crestfallen.

Aman grimaced. 

He looked so sad.

Aman didn’t want to be the cause of that.

Maybe he could humour Kartik. Just this once.

After all, 100 rs was a small price to pay to see him smile.

“Actually, you know what-” Aman shook his head.

Kartik’s face lit up. 

“That was a lie.”

Aman hid his own smile as Kartik’s returned, even brighter than it was before. This was worth the hole in his wallet and the mildly damaged ego and  _ everything. _

“It’s red.” Aman frowned in disappointment, the action entirely facetious. 

Kartik didn’t notice.

“You were right.”

Kartik, being Kartik, took this news exactly as Aman had expected him to- by taking a very dramatic bow, thanking a fake audience, and holding his hand out for Aman to deposit his losses in it. Amand reached over to the coffee table with an annoyed huff, pulled a rather frayed note out with all the enthusiasm of a drugged turtle, and went to put it in Kartik’s open hand

And it was in that moment, when Aman’s gaze fell on the vibrant pigment that graced his boyfriend’s nails, that Aman saw it.

The colour red. 

As it always had been- a simple colour, with no hidden meaning behind it, no depth, no significance. Just a colour.

Until just now.

It seemed to be calling out to him now. Chanting his name from every corner of their living room, demanding to be noticed. The colour he had somehow overlooked entirely, right up until that moment. It pervaded his vision now, until suddenly that was all he could see.

It was everywhere.

It was in the cherry flavoured jellybeans Kartik always, unfailingly saved up for Aman, every last one. Despite loving them as he would any other. Simply because Aman preferred them over the other flavours. The strawberry jam at the tip of his nose that Aman would take a moment to laugh at, before wiping away with his thumb.

It was in the guitar the man played like he was born to do so, the colour of freshly forming calluses on his fingertips as they effortlessly floated over the strings, his talented fingers strumming along to pretty little tunes. At times accompanied by his angelic voice, all upon Aman's request. Whenever Aman wanted, no questions asked.

It was the colour that spanned the slow _ beat, beat, beat _ that resonated in Aman's mind, when he laid his head on Kartik's chest after a long day at work. The colour of the mug as Kartik handed Aman some much needed, steaming hot chocolate paired with a comforting word, the colour of the blanket Aman woke up under when he unintentionally fell asleep on the couch

It was the colour of his lips, when Aman dragged him closer and closer, capturing that easy, carefree smile with his own. The soft flush of Kartik's cheeks, when Aman ran his fingers along his thigh in the darkness of a theatre, the colour of the marks Aman enjoyed leaving on his graceful neck, the colours his nails left on Kartik’s beautiful back.

It was the blood racing through his veins when Kartik loved him, worshipped him, spoiled him with kisses that felt like heaven, and hugs that felt like home. The desire that burned bright in his eyes after going untouched for far too long.

The colour of the bedroom they spent their nights in, wrapped in nothing but silence and tender embrace. The colour of his hoodies that invariably found themselves in Aman's wardrobe less than one week in, stolen under Kartik’s very nose. The colour of the heart Kartik stole right back.

The colour Aman saw in the corner of his eyes when Kartik talked about his childhood. The way his own father treated a younger, far more vulnerable version of the man in his arms. The colour of his forehead the day he'd been home sick, curled up in Aman's lap, weak and helpless like he hadn't let himself be around anybody else.

The colour of the rose he'd shown up with on their first date, drenched from the rain, the colour of the towel Aman had lovingly dried his handsome hair with. The colour of the worn umbrella that stood over them, tried and failed to protect the two from the forceful downpour. The warmth of Kartik's arm around his shoulder, shielding him against the chilling raindrops.

The colour of his eyes when they stayed up late, talking about things that could only be uttered in the dark, things that held no meaning for them past sunrise. The colour of the room which had gone from  _ Kartik's _ to  _ theirs, _ just as they had gone from friends to so much more.

The colour of his neck, after walking hand in hand under the unforgiving summer heat, because he’d forgotten the sunscreen even after Aman had reminded him far too many times to count. (thrice).

It was the colour of his ears when they exchanged words in anger, the delicate touch of fingertips against Aman's cheek when they exchanged words of forgiveness, the heat of his gasp against Aman’s neck when they made up.

The impression of the lipstick he left on the corner of Aman's mouth on particularly playful days, The colour of the wine they shared on special nights, the rich food they enjoyed even better when they were together.

It was the strip at the very top of their flag, the flag that symbolised their identities, their love, their pride. 

_ Red _ . 

All this time, he had a favourite colour, and he didn't even know it.

Aman smiled.

He could probably live in it now.

**Author's Note:**

> im sori


End file.
